


Shower

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way back, Marcus and Esca wash off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shower

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

From the top of the mountain, they can see the wall, but once they’re down the crest, it’s gone again, and the hills all around them obscure the distance. Marcus is riding straighter, stronger, though his leg still throbs and he knows he’s far from healed. The pressure of the chase is off, and that’s everything. When he feels the Eagle’s weight in his hands, it seeps some of the pain away, wraps it in gold and says: _this was all worth it._

For more than just that. Esca smiles at him now, something that makes his chest constrict and his heart _ache_ , and when Esca tells him, “Let’s stop here,” there’s no anger in it. All the tension that clouded them before went up with the pyre. If they’d made this whole journey and never found the Eagle, but everything else between them still grew as it did, Marcus might still be happy. No, he would be. The Eagle is something he’ll hand off, feel in his honour but leave, and Esca’s friendship is something that will last with him a lifetime. 

Esca leads them down the sodden hillside, weaves them between the trees and says, “We should bathe.” He gives orders like he was built for it. And he was never a good slave, not really. He was good to Marcus, yes, but subservience doesn’t suit him. Marcus understands now and is grateful for it, grateful to know that Esca was never broken, even if it sullied Rome for Marcus to understand. Rome isn’t what it once was to him. But he can’t begrudge Esca just for opening his eyes. 

Their horses get harder to steer the closer to the river they get—it’s one of those rocky, messy shores littered with muddy holes and dying logs. They dismount to lead the horses close enough to drink and tie them to the trees, though they seem content just to rest and flick their tails. Back on his own legs, Marcus is less sure-footed—it’s difficult to put weight on his wound. He makes his way towards the slow-moving creek, boots dragging through the half-mud, half-sand. None of these clothes will be salvageable, once they’re back. He’s looking forward to warm, dry sheets as much as anything else. That and good food. And maybe a soft cot. 

But then, he’s not sure where Esca will go, and that whole uncertainty makes the rest seem unimportant; comfort will mean nothing without Esca to share it with. They’ll have to speak about it. At the water’s edge, he finds a big rock with a smooth, flat side to sit against. He settles down with his back to it and spreads his legs out before him, catching in the edges of the water around his boots. He doesn’t bother to take them off, but he does struggle to get his tunic over his head.

Esca’s at his side in a flash, helping to wrestle the fabric away. Marcus has slipped back into being part invalid, Esca his helper. With warm cheeks, Marcus folds the tunic at his side and says, “Thank you.” He tries not to look at Esca, because there is no reason to blush over a former slave undressing his master, but Marcus flushes all the same. Esca draws the wrong reactions out of him too often. Now that Esca’s free, that he can leave, that he isn’t something small and fragile for Marcus to protect and desperately hold into, all those feelings are just amplified. Esca _isn’t_ a slave anymore; he’s a handsome, free man willfully undressing another. 

He sits on the shore next to Marcus and pulls his own tunic effortlessly over his head. Marcus sees it all in his peripherals, catches the silhouette of Esca’s slender body twisting to be rid of clothes. Marcus tells himself to close his eyes but can’t bring himself to go that far. He’s sure his own chest is rising and falling faster for his sidelong stares, his bare skin cold in the open air. It doesn’t seem so frigid now, after leaving the north, where the frost clawed at his eyes every moment. Now, the cool water is bearable, and Esca asks amidst unlacing his boots, “Are you going in with those?”

Marcus licks his dry lips and says, “I think I’ll just sit here and wash what I can.” He leaves off the part about how he doesn’t feel strong enough to move through it, though he’s sure Esca must know. Esca looks over at him and nods, full of understanding.

He’d be dead if it weren’t for Esca. Many times over. He knows that now. Even if he never left Roman territory, he’d be _defeated_ if it weren’t for Esca. Esca pushes the last of his braccae down his thighs, over his knees and off his feet. He bunches and stuffs them into his open boots, and Marcus _tries_ not to stare, he does, but he’s never had any luck with that, and he finds himself eyeing every little millimeter of newly exposed skin, hushed pale and flushed pink in the cold. He has so many lines of old scars, so many half-healed and newborn bruises, every one of which gives Marcus a stab of pain, but even so, he’s perfection, sculpted by the gods. As Esca stands and walks into the water, Marcus wills himself to speak—he can’t just leer like the sick Roman master he is—and he comments, “You’ve never done that before.”

“Bathe?” Esca asks, and he _laughs_ , not all dry and bitterness like Marcus is used to hearing. He’s so beautiful when his lips twist up like that—he’s _always_ beautiful, but he’s unbearably so like this, washed golden in the afternoon light. It picks through the branches and slides off his hair and skin like a shield of glory. Esca wades his way to somewhere in the middle and sinks down, sits against a large rock, slinking under until the water’s halfway up his chest. It laps along his biceps, his intricate tattoos, and his dusty-rose nipples, pebbled slightly from the temperature. Or maybe from being licked by the water. Marcus’ mouth goes dry from the tantalizing sight, and he doesn’t realize he’s gone too long without answering until Esca looks at him again, questioning. 

He says, “Undressing,” and forces his body forward. He stinks, he knows. He gathers water in his hands and splashes it back along his arm, the sting of it a good distraction. “In front of me, I mean.” Esca stripped and bathed Marcus enough when Marcus was barely well enough to hobble to his feet. 

Esca shrugs his slim shoulders and says, “I was a slave before, and I didn’t want to give that away.” He says it like it’s nothing, but Marcus can sense the weight beneath it, feels foolish for bringing it up, and tells himself he won’t again. 

He settles into washing himself, dragging little fistfuls of water up his tired muscles, across his collarbone, down the lines of his pecs. Somehow, even with all their clothes, the dirt’s trickled in and clings to him in every little groove it can find. Marcus scrubs at it, over the taut lines of his stomach, down into the trail of dark hairs that peek out of his braccae. He doesn’t hear Esca splashing, so he has no excuse for all the glances he steals, but he can’t _stop_ himself. Every time he bends to fetch more water, his chin lifts and his eyes rove Esca’s exposed body, glad for how clear the water is but disappointed that it still obscures his legs and crotch. They’re dull, flickering, flesh-coloured reflections on the surface. When Esca leans his honey hair back against the rock, his throat arches, and it reminds Marcus of the pit, when Esca held his head just as high. Marcus wanted Esca from the moment Marcus first laid eyes on him. 

Marcus hasn’t stopped looking since. When Esca’s eyes slide to him, Marcus knows he’s been caught, and he ducks his head towards the water again, but it’s too late. Esca says softly, “You’re always looking at me like that.” And Marcus knows exactly what he means. Marcus tries not to say anything; it was a statement, not a question, but then Esca adds, “From the very beginning...”

Marcus owes Esca an explanation. It’s the least he can do. He shakes his head and wills out the words, as delicately as he can phrase it, “You are... very... attractive.” It’s such an understatement. Esca snorts.

“I’ve seen lust on men’s faces before. It’s more than that.”

Marcus finds himself wincing at the insinuation and doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t want to sully the friendship they’ve built, and he can’t lie to Esca. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say other than that _he wants Esca desperately_ , so he busies himself with sloshing water over his back and trying to reach around the sides. 

“Why didn’t you ever do anything?” Esca’s voice draws Marcus’ attention again, which is a mistake, because now Esca’s facing him, head resting against the rock with damp hair, and all of his chest is there for Marcus to see, wet nipples hard under the constant flow of the water. “When I was your slave. It was your right to take me if that was what you wanted, and I was so sure more than once that you did.” Marcus really, truly did. But Esca says it so casually, like he wouldn’t have bitten and clawed and hated Marcus forever if Marcus had tried. He would’ve been no better than Esca’s image of entitled, murderous Romans, all built up on cruelty.

He tries to explain, “That’s a thing to be given, not taken.”

Esca nods his head once: agreement. Marcus doesn’t say that Esca had him in the same position, more so, if for less time, even on his knees with his throat exposed, and Esca never sought the revenge it looked like he wanted. 

Marcus gives up on his back and starts to thread damp fingers through his hair, tugging at the knots. 

Esca pushes out of the water, getting right up to his feet, and Marcus’ head snaps up, _stares_ , while Esca stands before him, bare and beautiful and right out of one of Marcus’ wet dreams. Even as Marcus’ eyes drift south, surprised to find Esca’s long, licked-pink cock half hard, Esca is moving forward, weaving easily over the rocks. Marcus can hear the scrape of them along the creek’s bottom, can hear the water moving, but his heartbeat is starting to drown them out, thundering in his ears. Esca glides right to him like a god, all the way to his feet, around them, up to Marcus’ side, and then he puts one leg over Marcus’ lap, and he slowly lowers down, so close that Marcus can smell his raw musk and see nothing else but Esca’s body, the water dripping off Esca’s skin and pooling along Marcus’ braccae. Esca perches in his lap, straddling his waist, heavy and real. For that first moment, Marcus is unable to breathe.

Esca lifts his hand to cup the back of Marcus’ head, fingers tight in his hair, like he did before the Seal tribe caught up to them, when he promised to return and did. His blue eyes burning. “Say that I’m free again.”

Marcus licks his lips, clears his throat and dazedly repeats, “You’re free.” He should’ve said it long ago. It didn’t occur to him, at first—where would a Briton go, if not to another master? And then he didn’t want to lose Esca, and then he couldn’t afford to, and then he told himself later, when the Eagle was safe and they had a moment to breathe, and then Esca went and took it himself, like he does with everything. His grip on Marcus’ head is on the verge of stinging, and his thighs are warm atop Marcus’, spread open as they are. Marcus doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t dare touch Esca and break the spell. Esca looks at him, breathing hard. 

Esca leans in, so slowly that it only adds to this dream-like haze, and he brushes his lips along Marcus’ cheek, drawing through Marcus’ growing stubble. So close to Marcus’ face, Esca breathes, “Tell me again.” 

Marcus moans before he can, because Esca’s hips have rolled once in his lap, and the tip of Esca’s wet cock is now poking his stomach, slick and smooth and teasing. Marcus has to hold the fraying ends of his mind together to mutter, “You’re free.” If he’d known this would be the reaction, he would’ve said it long ago, quest be damned. Esca doesn’t quite smile; his expression’s too intense.

He splays his smaller hands across Marcus’ chest, palms digging into his pecs, and Esca runs his fingers down, trailing little pink lines from the burn of his fingernails. Marcus hisses but enjoys the scratch. In this moment, he’d enjoy anything Esca gave him. If he had even a fraction less self-control and respect for the man in his lap, he’d be tossing Esca down into the shore and fucking him wild. 

But Marcus is good and still and waits for Esca’s pace. When Esca’s hands reach Marcus’ braccae, he undoes the tie without even looking. He pulls away enough to lock eyes with Marcus, and then he’s tilting his face and leaning in. 

Their lips collide, and Marcus is so wild with want that he might be trembling. This is what Esca does to him. Esca presses into him, so soft, unbelievably warm, soaking wet and utterly perfect. The kiss is closed, chaste, but all the little things overload him all the same. The slight scrape of Esca’s stubble, Esca’s bangs sticking to his forehead, their noses digging into the sides of each other’s. Marcus doesn’t open his mouth until Esca’s tongue swipes along his lips. Then he’s opening wider, wider as Esca fills him, traces over his teeth and roof and laps at his own tongue, suckling on it to draw it out. Marcus’ hands are lifting of their own accord, but the grip he places on Esca’s waist is light, tentative. He’d pull away in a heartbeat if he had to. Anything to sustain this. Esca strokes the back of his skull and kisses him the same, and Marcus melts in a long, languid moan that Esca swallows so easily. 

When Esca pulls his mouth away, Marcus feels like his world is collapsing, but Esca holds him back when he tries to follow. So Marcus stays, spine pinned to the rock, and tries not to dig his fingers too tightly into Esca’s hips. He wants to feel Esca’s ass, but he doesn’t dare. He looks at Esca helplessly and mumbles again, “You’re free.”

Esca smiles. It’s small but wholly amused. He says, hushed, “I’m giving freely. ...But I will take that away if you do anything at all I don’t want.”

“I understand.” Marcus can hardly believe what he’s hearing. In a trance, he licks his lips and insists, “I swear to behave myself.”

Esca’s grin stretches wider, and he chuckles, “Oh, you will, will you? I suppose it would be nice to have a Roman obeying me for a change.” Marcus tips his head in a bowing gesture; of course he’ll obey. He’d do anything Esca wished. Especially if it were to continue this. 

Esca kisses him again, faster and harder, tongue right away and scraping teeth. It’s properly _fierce_ which is so how Esca is, and though Marcus surges back to keep up, he’s still in awe of the strength of his partner. Esca’s one hand is still in his hair, and it trails closer along his jaw, so the thumb can brush his cheek, catching on the open end of Marcus’ lips. Esca’s other hand is still on Marcus’ braccae, but now it drifts to his stomach, fingertips curling in the dark hair of his crotch, pressing in and trailing beneath the hem. Marcus’ breath holds, and Esca uses that chance to _devour_ him; Marcus could choke on this; Esca drags his teeth along Marcus’ lips and bites into the bottom one, tugging as he leaves. His fingers slip deeper into the front of Marcus’ braccae, and at the hardening base of Marcus’ cock, Marcus twitches in excitement, hips cantering up once. Then Esca’s eyes pierce him, and he mutters, “Sorry,” and stills his body again. He can barely stop himself. Esca pets the underside of Marcus’ chin like soothing a horse that’s been good and presses a smaller kiss to the side of his lips. 

“I wanted you too,” Esca murmurs, his voice now thick with what Marcus hopes is lust. “But not as a slave.” The look he gives Marcus says he would’ve killed Marcus had anything been tried. Marcus just tilts his head forward, stopping a centimeter from Esca’s lips, waiting for Esca to close that extra distance. Waiting for permission. Esca rewards him by leaning in again. 

This kiss is ardent too, and Marcus clutches harder at Esca’s hips, delighted when Esca lets him—he rakes his blunt nails down Esca’s thighs and smoothes back over their inner curves, all the little hairs plastered down with water, and Esca rocks his hips into Marcus’ hands, just like Marcus would like to do. He resists touching Esca’s cock, touching Esca’s ass, feeling Esca’s balls in his palm like he so badly wants, and concentrates instead on just rubbing every bit of skin he can reach, as close as he can get, while his mouth paws at Esca’s. Esca’s hand moves again, pushes right down Marcus’ length, fingers wrapping tight around it. Marcus goes hoarse for that second, gasping, and Esca takes the opportunity to dominate the kiss while he pulls Marcus deftly out of his pants. There isn’t a chance to be shocked by the coldness of the air or the water on Esca’s hand, because Esca’s skin is burning beneath that, and Esca locks onto him and squeezes. 

Marcus _moans_ loud and wanton, and he breathes, “Esca, please, may I—”

Esca squeezes his cock harder and hisses, “Say please again.”

“ _Please,_ ” Marcus begs, not even sure now if he’s pleading to touch or to be touched, but either way, it’s worth the growl that boils out of Esca’s throat. Esca’s turned into some feral beast, writhing in his lap and holding him captive. Esca’s hand slackens to slide down Marcus’ length, the heel of it grinding into the top of Marcus’ balls, then catching them and kneading them just short of hurting. Fingers brushing through blond curls and shaking with the want to slip down, Marcus mutters, “Please, Esca—”

But Esca snaps, “No,” and seems to take such pleasure in the word that Marcus wouldn’t dare oppose it. He runs his hands back up to Esca’s waist and wraps his arms tight around it instead, drawing Esca closer, crushing him in, so his bare chest is grinding into Marcus’. Marcus’ cold-hardened nipples drag along Esca’s smooth skin, Esca’s rubbing into him, the outline of Esca’s cock rock-hard against his stomach. Marcus attacks Esca’s mouth with new vigor; if it’s going to be all he can have, he’ll have _all of it._

And Esca is good to him. Esca returns to his shaft and pumps up it, draws back down, sandwiched between their bodies, Esca’s balls and cock sometimes slipping along the tip of Marcus’ dick and over Esca’s fist. He tries to angle his hips so they’ll touch fully, but he can’t think clearly enough to coordinate, and in the end it all falls to Esca’s whims. Esca strokes his cock so perfectly, so masterfully, and Marcus hopes desperately that he’ll get the chance, some day, to return the favour. Maybe Esca only wanted to be in control, to do his own touching and exploring, this first time around. Maybe this is his wicked plan to put a Roman at his mercy, knock that Roman down and pull him apart at the seams, and it’s working, it’s working so _well_ , for Marcus would do anything Esca wished in this moment, anything at all. He wishes this could last forever—he has no need to return home, to present the Eagle, if he can have this instead, stay right here in Esca’s arms—but he’s wanted Esca too long and Esca is far too skilled—Marcus can’t last. 

Marcus crumbles, roars into Esca’s mouth like a battle cry and spends himself in Esca’s hand, arching into Esca’s body. Every part of his being tenses, peaks, his world fills with the tastes of Esca still on his tongue, the stench of Esca and the feel of Esca in his arms, and his head is spinning as Esca pumps him out and kisses his cheek and murmurs, “ _Marcus_ ,” so deep and full of love.

And then Marcus is coming down in a dizzy spiral, slumping forward into Esca’s body, though he still holds Esca tight. He buries his face in Esca’s shoulder. He wouldn’t let go for the world. 

Esca is his world. Has been for some time. Esca pushes lightly at Marcus’ shoulders, and Marcus begrudgingly detangles, panting like a dog and unsure anymore what’s sweat, water, spit, or seed. He presses his forehead into Esca’s, and Esca lets him whilst smearing the remains of his release across his heaving chest. 

Then Esca whispers fiercely, “I’ll only have you if you will be _mine._ ”

It takes Marcus a few blurry seconds to understand that. He tries to gather himself and says, “I always have been.”

Esca lifts up to kiss his forehead. Marcus barely has time to appreciate the gesture before Esca’s slipping off his lap to sit next to him in the sand. Marcus misses the heat, the weight, and the company, but he doesn’t protest as Esca fetches water from the stream and brings it back to gently clean off Marcus’ stomach. Marcus’ flagging cock still twitches every time Esca brushes against it, and that draws Marcus to stare at Esca’s, still jutting up into the air between his legs. Esca much catch Marcus’ stare, because he says bluntly, “You can have it when I’ve finished cleaning you.”

 _Have it._ It’s such a vague offer that Marcus’ mind can’t help but fill in the details, wondering what Esca means—he’ll let Marcus touch his cock? Or he’ll fill Marcus with it—Marcus’ ass or mouth? Or maybe he’ll straddle Marcus’ lap again and grind into him until they’re sticky and soiled anew Marcus knows he should prefer certain options more than others, but he finds he can’t care—so long as Esca is happy, Marcus will be. The thought of bowing to Esca’s whim is more exciting than it should be. 

So Marcus sits like a good Roman soldier, openly ogling his lover while Esca tenderly cleans him off. Having had a taste of Esca only makes him more beautiful.

At one point, Marcus, hoping to speed along the process, sheepishly mumbles, “You’re free?” And Esca grins and shoves him.


End file.
